A Word from the Unwise

I am sure that, as I write, there will be a lot of grandmothers out there sucking a lot of eggs and that it is not my place - nor would I ever presume - to teach them anything, I would like to take this opportunity to share the result of a recent experiment which I delayed for far too long.

At a time when decidedly deciduous trees are maliciously shedding their forlorn canopies over our defenceless lawns, here is advice so obvious that no one heeds it. Derived as it is from a saying that starts with Petit à petit … (et bon appetit) … l’oiseau fait son nid.

Do 10 minutes’ raking a day, rather than a 70-minute slog after a week of neglected accumulation.

And … don’t bother picking up the leaves either IF, as I do, you are fortunate enough to have a small adjacent vegetable patch upon which you can brush the foaming amber waves to crash and further die on the exhausted soil. I did this last year and discovered the benefits when, having buried the leaves by turning them over, while weeding, into the patch at the end of November, I found that the soil had become much lighter, crumblier, and more fertile.

Another huge advantage is that now I have even more time to find out that “I have nothing better to do than …”

Why I did not discover this sooner, I don’t know, other than from (im)pertinent information on the subject conveyed to me by an always alert Mrs Lao. Some say you need lerts, I don’t, but I’ve got them!

 

Here at the Tidemark we long ago agreed that if a job undone is niggling one party but not so much the other, the niggly party will undertake, without complaint, the task needed to rectify the niggle. With a bit of luck, the unniggled one might even join in to help smooth the niggles for the other.

 

Down here at Cade Gardens, there's only one worker and they rake the leaves up twice a year. Once when half of them have fallen down and then again when the remainder have swirled down; if they are wet all the better as they don't move once raked.
Sunday morning is a favourite time to do the job, scoop up with two bits of plywood, into a dumpy bag and then leave for the next year or so before redistributing the remains.

 

I pick mine up one at a time with a grabber, to avoid bending. I start in October and finish round Feb. I try to do 20 mins, or a small bucket-load, per day, though when it is as vile outside as it has been today, obviously I am allowed to skip the job.

I enjoy it in many ways. It's a daily garden tour and I notice lots of stuff I would otherwise miss - a fungi popping up here, a frog sheltering there, a late flower, a new squirrel excavation, etc.

 

I've discovered the Ryobi cordless blower Useful if it's too wet to collect leaves with the mower. They get blown into the borders where they provide the perfect cover for slugs, snails and cat poo. But I get brownie points from the fluffy bunny brigade, so that's alright

 

A friend of mine had had two boys and, on the brink of 45, desperately tried for a girl and I asked her if this was a good idea. She said she didn’t know. Anyway, she fell pregnant and then gave birth to twins … both boys! So now she had four. Visiting her in hospital, she looked at me – and she was quite serious – and said Don’t laugh! … As if!

A few weeks later, I went for a visit, the house was swimming in testosterone. Eventually, I said So, how do you feel about all this? She shook her head and said, Aaahh, you shouldn’t have children if you are too old to pick them up.

That’s how I feel about leaves.

 

As the trees in the hedgerow at the bottom of my garden get bigger with each passing year, the amount of fallen leaves covering the path near my gateway also increases.
I sweep them away every morning - it's good exercise

I haven't got lawns to worry about, and the garden hasn't got tall trees anyway - I only have deciduous shrubs to give me fallen leaves. I tend to leave them alone and they rot down into the soil.

Partner was always sweeping the paths but she's dead now so I so it for her

 

Most will think me mad as I actually start importing leaves into the garden and allotment at this time of year.

 

How can you not have lawns to worry about?!?

Get some lawns, you'll never have to worry about anything else again!

 

Julia Lang, eh?

So, that's where the connection with "Shiney" originates(?). The plot thickens!

 

Prudence Kitten. I wrote to her when I was about six years old and said how much I liked her. She sent me back a signed photo of herself.

 

Uncanny that you should not only mention the “October Storm” but also be so specific about time. I had planned to write about it on its forthcoming 40th anniversary … but it’s finding the time …

After Michael’s fishy report, it was at 03.07 that I looked out and, at the end of the garden, saw the poplar at 45 degrees. It never occurred to me that the angle spelt a point of no return. At 8 am, I couldn’t understand what I was looking at. The poplar had gone; a fenceless, dystopian universe unrecognisably presented itself, as if the whole world had been sucked up into thin air. Gradually, the flattened reality dawned. The poplar had been at the back of a garden I shared in Wimbledon with a medical student who became one of the youngest ever (and controversial – in more ways than one) professors of his discipline. His tree had gone crashing down diagonally into our neighbour’s garden. When he was told how much it would cost to remove it, he placed old planks under the trunk and sent his insurance company photographic “evidence” of his neighbour’s “crushed shed”. The tree man (a surgeon of a different sort but equally shady) said he would cut up the tree into logs and burn them in situ. The student – now equipped with assuredly appropriate financial resources – said that would not be convenient, as it would irretrievably scar his garden, and that the way to go was to cart the logs across the neighbour’s garden (now expediently (de)fenceless) and loaded up onto a lorry parked in the adjacent street. To my amazement, the contractor, despite the incredible workload, readily agreed to this. After work, we came home to a blazing tornado, as the flaming poplar joined other fires illuminating the neighbourhood. My medical co-lessee sued the arborist for breach of verbal contract, giving credence to the old adage that “it’s an ill wind …”.